


you’d break your heart to make it bigger

by opheliahyde



Series: that ends today [1]
Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Slavery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S2 Spoilers: She doesn't feel like a savior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you’d break your heart to make it bigger

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _hundred years, hundred more / someday we may see a woman king / bloodshot eye, thumb down and starting to weep_. 
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken's _Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors_

She doesn’t remember much of her mother, the outlines of a face, a scent on the air, memories crumbling and dusty.

Santanico remembers the day they came for her, the day she was taken, the satchel her mother pushed into her hands, her lips on her brow, her hands over hair, what she whispered.

_Run fast_.

(it echoes in her head years later, pounds in her chest they day she felt the spray of blood and watched the life drain from the boy in front of her

_run fast,_  and she did

but not fast enough)

 

 

 

A woman meets her on the street and stares like she can see inside her, dark eyes tempered with awe and recognition, a reverence that itches at Santanico’s skin even now.

She offers up her wrist, her blood pulsating under her thin skin.  “Cleanse me,  _Kisa_.”

_I’m not your savior_ , she wants to spit out, feels her fangs sharp on her tongue.  _I’m not anyone’s savior_.

But she takes her wrist and bites, lets her blood flow over her tongue, warm and sour and tasting of limes, lets the memories fill her up, taking only the bad, the sins–it’s been a while, but she still remembers how to do it, separate out what needs to be bled out.

( _Isadora_  is her name, her soul says, written in the blood;  _gift_ , it means, though she never felt like a gift, and Santanico could relate)

Santanico tears her own shirt when she pulls off, wrapping the cloth tight around her wrist, pressing her hand over the wound.

_Gracias, mis diosa_ , she breathes, and Santanico wipes her mouth.

That morning, she dreams of a sun that doesn’t burn when she sleeps; she dreams of running with no one chasing, a freedom she can taste when she wakes.

 

 

 

When Santanico heard what must be done, she told them _no_.

(they came to her all stolen,  _taken_ , and given to her to be raised up and taught to dance– _another punishment_ , she thought, looking into eyes that once reflected her own, laid her hands on their trembling skins and tried not to be sick; some knew who she was, other found out, some breathed her name and fell to their knees,  _Kisa, mi diosa_  and looked to her with hope in their eyes

she hadn’t the heart to tell them,  _there is no hope here_ )

She tried and failed and tried again to find another way, but Carlos came up with no solution, no answers, nothing other than what must be done.

Karina found her crying and wiped away her tears, stroking the tops of her cheeks with the pads of her thumbs, cupping her palms under Santanico’s jaw and bringing her face towards the light. “It’s an honor,” she says, brushing her lips over Santanico’s brow, bringing their heads together.

Santanico brings her hand to Karina’s head, strokes her fingers through her hair. “Your lives are worth more than honor.”

(when they go, it’s the sun that takes them and for a moment she feels warm and full of light, like her arms can stretch and reach around them, holding them until they pass–souls freed as her final chains unlock)

 

 

 

She never tells Richard her name, despite the hunger behind his eyes, like knives that could shave away her layers of lies and secrets if she’s not careful.

(it seems fair; she never calls him Richie, though it dances on her tongue, not like her to dredge up old ghosts when she wants her own to stay long buried)

They kiss soft and chaste, like an old habit, and try as he may, Richard never looks to her like she’s above him, or below him–he looks at her like she is, and that suits her just fine.

( _one day I’ll return the favor, mijo_ , she whispers when she can’t sleep, stroking the loose strands of his hair, and curling against his side,  _we’ll both be free when it’s all over_ )

 

 

 

The women in the back of the truck stare at her wide-eyed and stock-still, terror permeating the small space, thick and claustrophobic.

Santanico thinks of closing the door and letting them stay, can feel Richard’s impatience at her back, eyes boring into her skin. There’s a certain kind of security in captivity, she remembers that.

She shouts before she realizes what she’s doing, her words like venom kicking out of her throat and burning her tongue. They scatter, fleeing their furious savior and for a moment, Santanico remembers the girl who was called Kisa.  

_Run fast_ , she thinks, watching them run into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://vanessagecko.tumblr.com)!


End file.
